The Scoop Wars

“I see you got the Whisker 4000 SX,” my neighbor nodded.

It probably wasn’t an exact quote, but it’s what I thought I heard as I tilted my head and stared blankly at her over the fence.

I understood the words individually, but when strung together, they lacked meaning.

“I must have missed an important context. What now?”

“Evidently, you missed the package the delivery truck dropped on your front porch this morning … it looks like you guys got a kitty litter robot.”

“Not guys,” I think sourly. One. Guy.

The H.U.S.B.A.N.D.

He’d be The Guy.

The next realization caused me to erupt into flames.

I know we discussed this ….

We talked about the potential of investing in an automated poop raking machine not only to improve my life (as the chief pooper scooper), but also the lives of our kind and generous neighbors with whom we’ve traded pet care for years. It might also improve the air quality, especially during the summer months when the stifling, odoriferous air tends to stagnate in that part of the house, making the prospect of receiving guests mortifyingly unpleasant.

But aside from the smelly cats, and the man’s guilt reflex being even more reactive than his gag reflex, I had reservations.

The $600 price tag was a big one.

I thought changing cat litter and resolving to scoop at least once a day would be sufficient.

I mean … Even if we didn't have college and car payments and a faltering economy to worry about, I feel like I said quite clearly that I didn’t want to purchase another electrified gadget that measured and analyzed a formerly analog chore that had historically fallen on me to perform.

But the neighbor was right. There it was. On the porch. Blocking the door.

Where would it even fit? The way I saw it, we would have to reconfigure the cats’ powder room (a hallway utility closet) to accommodate its size, which is comparable to a standard washing machine.

I didn't want its smirking, smart technology showing off OR sending reports into the cloud that I would now be required to follow and obsess about.

I certainly didn’t want to be the one to troubleshoot the equipment or re-train the cats.

RE-Train the cats?

I didn’t even have that on my radar until finding a urine-soaked pet bed three days after he’d set up the machine, sans directions.

“One of our fearsome felines is not happy about your new amusement poop ride,” I groused, depositing the sodden textile into a trash bag.

He scratches his head.

“Maybe … it’s the height,” I suggest. The cat is getting older, maybe it's harder for her to make that higher leap? Or maybe the problem is the channeled step, designed to separate the litter from the little paws. Like a grate, the sensation may be something she’d like to avoid?” Perhaps we’ll have to cover it with something so she’ll use it to make the step up?”

With a satirical wink and nod to his mastery over the situation, he was adamant that I should not worry-my-pretty-little-head-about-it.

Which I naturally assured him, I would not.

“You know … I’ve had a think and feel as if I overreacted before. I should have told you how fantastic I think it is that you are taking over the cat poop duties.”